


The Maiden's Moon

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothels, Daydreaming, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I swear it's happy in the end y'all, Injury, Kidnapping, Lord Baelish steals kids and tells their parents they've died of a fever, Minor Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Ned/Cat doesn't start till chapter 4, Non-Consensual, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plague, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Ravens, Rescue Missions, Secrets, Tattoos, Training, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Jon and Sansa are stolen from their families and forced to train as courtesans in Lord Baelish's brothel, the Pink Pearl. They form a deep friendship, even as Lord Baelish tries to tear them apart. But can their bond survive the cruelties of the brothel and its patrons?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay *deep breath* so this is the first fic I've ever written that's easily over 10k words. It's already complete, so you don't need to worry about it being an unfinished WIP! The past is written, the ink is dry, etc. :)
> 
> Also, it's very intense! More intense than my usual fluff fest. I'll be adding tags as I go along, but please, please heed them. This fic goes to some very dark places. It's ultimately uplifting, but I'd hate for anyone to be upset by the content here. 
> 
> Un-beta'ed, all mistakes mine (my beta reader wasn't available for this fic). I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi!

Sansa swept aside the beaded curtain and tiptoed over to join the other pupils. Lord Baelish had arranged a circle of chairs in the central room of his brothel, the Pink Pearl.  The room smelled of incense, and what Sansa now knew was sex. Sex that men and woman bought and paid for.

Soon she’d be bought and paid for too. The children in this room been captured, some highborn, some from the streets, selected for their youth. The blond-haired girl across from Sansa was weeping openly, drying her eyes with her white shift.

The girls had whispered among themselves on thin straw mattresses last night, trying to make sense of how their lives had taken a terrible turn. Sansa remembered how happy she’d been when the raven with a Lannister seal arrived from the capital. She’d been summoned by the Queen herself, to foster at King’s Landing. Other highborn girls had received similar messages, and set off of journeys of their own. 

Poorer families had offered up their children, especially their daughters, without fanfare. Daughters cost money to marry off. Some households had been persuaded to give up handsome boys. The families had been provided with generous sums of gold to make up for their earnings.

Families like Sansa’s had misgivings, of course. Allowing their highborn daughters to travel on the Kingsroad was a serious risk, but a queen’s command was not easily turned aside. Sansa’s parents had fussed over her and sent her off with their best guards – Jory Cassell among them – as well as Septa Mordane. 

Sansa’s chest had swelled with excitement to be on such an adventure, until her coach had been attacked and she’d been shoved out the door and into the mud. Septa Mordane’s high scream had cut off abruptly in the night. Jory had lunged for Sansa, his face contorted with rage, before a stranger threw a burlap sack over Sansa’s head, and dragged her here, to Lord Baelish’s establishment.

Lord Baelish entered the room, resplendent in a green jacquard jacket, and made his way to the center of the circle. He stood on the raised dais and opened his arms in a beneficent gesture. He turned slowly, welcoming each child in turn. Lord Baelish had ordered the boys and girls alike dressed in white, for their first formal “introduction” to the brothel. 

He silenced the chorus of questions with a quick motion of his hand.

“Our lovely queen didn’t tell the whole truth to your parents. But you are here for a special reason. You’ve been selected for your looks, and for some of you-" Lord Baelish glanced at Sansa, and smirked "–your impeccable manners. All of those attributes will serve you well as you learn how to serve our clients here at the Pink Pearl.”

According to gossip Sansa had heard, it was better to have highborn manners. Manners and courtesy couldn't be taught quickly, and fetched a high price. Sansa’s hair was a fiery red, her skin was smooth and clear as ivory, and she’d been raised as a lady. She knew how to sit up straight and and sing and play the harp. Children from common households, who didn’t know the proper forms of address, who couldn’t play instruments or eat delicately – they’d have the worst clients. Clients who didn’t care about style and nuance, as long as they could fuck how they liked.

“Our families,” the blond-haired girl burst out, “they’ll come for us, they’ll hunt you-“

Lord Baelish walked over and cupped the girl’s cheek. “I doubt it very much, little one. Your families have been told the wasting fever took you on the Kingsroad. A tragic outbreak, like last year's. So many young lives lost. We had to burn your bodies-“

A collective gasp went up, but Lord Baelish continued to talk, serene as if he was discussing the weather, rather the cover up of their “deaths”.

“-so you are well and truly gone, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, you’ll begin a new life here, and the Queen will see to it that you’re treated well.”

He's lying, she thought, Cersei didn't send those letters, he did. The queen didn't ask for any of us. No one else knows we're here. 

But it was a well-chosen tale. She could still see her mother's ashen face when she'd received word that the wasting fever had struck the Vale. Sansa had been embroidering a dress for their visit to Aunt Lysa, but news of the deadly illness had brought a halt to their planning. Sansa's mother had comforted her, but Sansa had also found her mother praying in Winterfell's small Sept, bidding a tearful goodbye to Lysa and Robyn Arryn. The Vale had never recovered, and her aunt and cousin had died. 

"Filthy liar," the boy next to Sansa muttered, as he glared straight ahead. His dark curls spilled over his forehead. His long lashes and full lips would be the envy of any girl. He sat straight-backed in his chair.

"Trust Lord Baelish to pull a trick like this, as tricky as he is with coin. Stole the Queen's seal and sent his own ravens-“ He slumped in his seat, scowling. 

“Don’t,” Sansa hissed.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be a fool, don't slouch, don’t complain. Haven’t you heard? The well-mannered ones, those who know their courtesies, they’ll be treated better. Sit up straight, try not to get hurt!”

The boy gave her a sullen look. His eyes are storm grey, Sansa thought, like the North, and the skies above Winterfell.

There was a hint of a smile on his lips, though. “I’m...well-mannered?”

Sansa flushed. She’d thought herself dead inside, after the nightmare of her capture. But the boy’s smirk made her temper flare.

“Yes, you were raised that way. You know Lord Baelish is the master of coin. Your posture was proper, until a moment ago. You know the rules, and that means someone taught them to you. You’re the highborn son of a lord.”

The boy’s mouth worked. “I’m not, but you’re right, I’ve been taught well enough. Doesn’t mean I have to give in. Hang the rules.”

“They’ll hang _you_ , if you don’t follow them. Stay alive.”

“You’re fierce, for a dainty lady. I’m Jon.”

“I’m...I’m Sansa.” She had to push the name past her lips, because it brought a torrent of memories with it. Her solemn father’s smile and her wild little brother’s bright laugh. _Father. Mother. Arya. Bran and Rickon and Robb. They’re gone, I’ll never see them again_.

“Look now.” Jon’s gray eyes softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed. Sansa’s a pretty name. It suits you. Don’t cry, he'll see, and...”

“And what?”

Jon glanced away. “Maybe I want you to stay safe here too, all right?”

A tiny flicker of warmth bloomed in Sansa’s chest. Jon had gotten under her skin, but she’d gotten under his, and she felt alive, like a person, for the first time since she’d walked through the doors of the Pink Pearl.

Sansa reached for Jon’s hand. “Can we keep each other safe? Try, at least? We could write to the Queen, see if she knows-” Lord Baelish was speaking to the blond-hared girl across the room, but the hairs stood up on the back of Sansa’s neck. She had the eerie feeling he’d had heard them.

Jon’s quick squeeze of her hand was worth the risk. “We can try, Sansa, but the fever...would your parents believe it?" His grey eyes searched hers.

Sansa thought again of her mother, of how she'd lost hope for Lysa and Robyn. How she'd lit candles in the darkness, rather than question the ill news the raven bore. She fought back tears. "They might."

Jon nodded. "I've only one person in the world left, and I think he'd believe it too."

He's being smart about this, and I need to do the same, Sansa thought. She dashed away her tears.

Jon squeezed her hand again. "I’ll watch out for you, Sansa.”

She mustered up a smile. "I'll watch out for you too, Jon.”

Lord Baelish turned just as Jon released Sansa’s hand. They both schooled their features into a mask. The proprietor’s eyes glided over them, but Sansa was still uneasy. He clapped his hands, once, and the room fell silent. We’re under his spell already, Sansa thought.

“Your training begins this afternoon. Boys, file out with Satin.” He pointed to a slender, dark haired man standing in the corner. “Girls, with Ros.” A lush woman stood by the door, her thick red hair tumbling down the back of her sheer green gown. She smiled at the girls. 

Lord Baelish nodded to Satin and Ros in turn. “They are your instructors, and will initiate you in the palace arts. Your training will last approximately two months, until we decide you are ready to serve the needs of our customers and become courtesans. Pleasure is an art form like any other, and Satin and Ros are at the height of their craft.”

 _How he does like to hear himself talk_ , Sansa thought bitterly. _What a web of lies he's woven for us_.

Lord Baelish looked every child in the eye one last time. “Pay attention, learn well, and you will be rewarded. Now go.”

Sansa took one last glance at Jon, at the mutinous set of his jaw, before she filed out of the room with the rest of the girls who trailed after Ros.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa helps one of her fellow students through a trying ordeal, before plotting an escape with Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa witnesses serious non-con in this chapter, be warned!

Ros trained Sansa and the other girls in her charge gently. She visited the girls’ quarters each day, showing them how to kiss, how to whimper, and how to ignite passion as soon as they entered a client’s room. Over the weeks, Ros introduced them to the games men liked to play, when they came to Lord Baelish’s establishment and paid dearly in coin.

She taught them to feign shyness, to play up the batting of their eyelashes and the flush on their cheeks, until they couldn’t _help_ but give in to the desirable man in front of them.

She taught them well, because the first lesson and the last was clear – if a client was displeased, the courtesan was to blame.

This morning, Ros lectured them on the most likely scenarios they could expect, once they graduated. She gazed warmly at the girls who sat by her feet. “Most of your visitors will be men, hungering for youth and innocence.”

“Why?” Dara, the blond-haired girl who’d caused a commotion when they first met Lord Baelish, still peppered Ros with questions.

Ros smiled patiently. “Men worship youth, and wives grow old. They bear children, their hips get wider and their skin dulls. Men want to see their young, fresh-faced brides again, or remember the sweet flower they plucked one night, before they put her aside to wed for duty.”

 _That's awful_ , Sansa thought, _not all men are like that, not my father, he'd never hurt my lady mother so._ But there had been rumors her father had gotten a bastard on some woman during the war, and left the child behind. Sansa felt sick. Perhaps every marriage had its own lies. 

Ros called Sansa onto her lap. “Today I’m a southern lord, angry about losing at cards, and I need you to resist me before you yield.” Ros put a finger under Sansa’s chin. “Can you try for me?” Sansa nodded. Ros bargained with Lord Baelish for more blankets, and had insisted on training the girls for three months, rather than two, after she saw how green they were. Sansa trusted no one in this wretched place – no one save Jon – but Ros came close.

Sansa did as Ros asked, leaning away from her pawing, then melting into her as Ros palmed her breasts and sucked on her pulse point. Sansa felt a flash of pleasure between her legs.

“Very good,” Ross said, breaking the kiss, “well done. You convinced me that I’d seduced you.” Sansa took a few quick breaths, still dizzy from Ros’s kiss. 

“Sansa?” Ros tapped her shoulder. “I said you could go now.” Ros’s voice was gentle, but stern.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, “I should have been paying attention.”

Ros patted her knee. “It’s all right. Run along now, and take Dara and Nala with you. The three of you are to find Satin by the viewing room. You'll meet one of the boys there. Do you remember the directions I gave you?"

Sansa nodded as she stood.  She found Dara and Nala and led them through the dusty back corridors of the Pink Pearl. A few slits high up on the stone walls let in dim light. Lord Baelish’s brothels were opulent where it mattered. Ros had taken them on a brief tour once. The rooms were covered in rich fabrics, scented with incense, and adorned with finely wrought lamps. But Lord Baelish only spent coin where it was needed. His white-clad pupils could find their own way down the dark halls. 

“What happens now?” Dara asked.

Sansa counted to ten before answering. Ros has explained it many times over, but Dara was not especially bright.

“We’re to meet Satin by the room with the large porthole window.”

“It’s supposed to block out sounds,” Nala confided, “in case we make too much noise.”

Sansa nodded. "That's – for when we start training with the boys.” She finished strong, to cover her own fears.

“Will they take our maiden’s gifts?” Nala asked.

“I doubt it,” Sansa said, “they’re valuable. I expect they’ll train us in over ways.”

“Maybe your Jon will be there,” Dara muttered.

Sansa dug her fingers into her palm. She snuck over to the boy’s quarters regularly, under cover of night, and spoke with Jon through the gap in the door. He’d told her recently, after much prying, about a bad sprain he’d gotten from fighting with one of the other boys. 

Apparently the boy had pinned a girl down too hard during training, and Jon had punched him. She’d chastised Jon, telling him not to be like a knight in a song. She’d risked a beating by stealing some milk of the poppy from the infirmary to help him with the pain. The day after the injury, she’d slipped the potion into Jon’s hand.

“You two don't sit together so much during meals anymore," Nala said. "Why's that?" 

 _Because we’re having this conversation right now_ , Sansa thought. Boys and girls shared the same common hall for meals each morning. They sat on benches lining the long wooden table. Cook slopped out the same porridge day after day, sometimes with a chunk of tough meat.

Jon stuck close to her side during those meals. He’d had taken to giving her half his food, despite her protests, because he insisted she was getting too thin. They fought in low, hushed tones, but he dropped the food on her plate, a silent dare in his eyes, and she was secretly grateful. She did sleep better with a full stomach.

Dara scoffed at Nala. “Are you serious? Lord Baelish caught them out, remember?"

Sansa shivered at the memory. Lord Baelish had pointedly cleared his throat behind them during dinner a week ago, and they’d been cautious since. Sansa wasn’t sure what the punishment for friendship was, especially between boys and girls. But she knew in her bones there would be one, sure as sunrise, if she and Jon didn’t exercise more discretion.

Sansa lifted her chin. “Jon might be there, or he might not. What’s it to me?"

Dara and Nala exchanged loloo, but didn’t ask Sansa any more questions. The girls took the final left turn that brought them to Satin, and the room with the porthole window.

“Ah, there you are.” Satin waived them over. “One of my boys is on his way, and another will be here soon. We’ll practice with fingers and tongues today. Nothing that would put your maiden's gifts at risk.” Satin looked them up and down coolly. “They’re the most expensive items on Petyr’s list of services, after all. This is your assigned training time, so please remember it, and plan to come back each week. It helps when you receive the same lesson, and we can discuss techniques afterwards." Satin glanced over their shoulders. “Here he comes now.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry. _Please don’t be Jon, please don’t be Jon, please..._

“Harry, good of you to join us.” Satin smiled.

A large boy with sandy hair and a faded bruise on his cheek sauntered over to the door. “Who’s first?” Harry asked. He pointed at Sansa. “Her, I hope it’s her, I’ve a liking for redheads.”

Satin pursed his lips. “No, Nala will be your first companion."

Harry smirked at Satin. "So Baelish wants special training for Sansa Stark. She's his prize, after all, isn't she? The only one here from a great house."

 _What?_ Sansa's mind whirled. _That can't be right, it can't be-_

Satin sighed. "Sansa will be trained exactly the same as the rest of the girls. She's not your concern, Harry. And you'll start with Nala to remind you that a client is always beautiful to you, no matter the color of her hair.”

Harry smirked. “Ugly as an auroch, yet I still have to convince her she’s a princess.”

Satin’s expression did not change, but he tensed. “Enough. Take Nala, and practice with your tongue. Girls, wait out here and watch.” Satin led Nala and Harry into the room ad shut the door behind them.

The hallway was suddenly silent. The room lived up to its reputation. Squeals of ecstasy or cries of pain – none of them would find their way to a client’s ears until Lord Baelish, Ros and Satin decided the tone and tenor was pleasing to the ear.

Dara peeked in the window. “Look, Sansa, I think she likes it...” Sansa peered into the room and stifled a gasp. Nala’s head was thrown back, and Sansa’s cheeks flushed when she saw the scandalous position Harry was in between Nala’s legs, how he lapped at her...cunt, she’d best get used to the word, according to Ros.

Nala had tossed an arm over her eyes, and she seemed to be trying to pull away from Harry, but Harry held her firmly, refusing to let her move. Was he the boy Jon had fought?

Dara was breathing faster. “Look, how he’s licking at her, Sansa.”

Sansa glanced back at Nala, who was pushing Harry away with her hands now. There were tears in her eyes.  

“Dara, he’s hurting her, he needs to stop, he...”

Dara shrugged, eyes glued to Nala’s writhing body. “Can’t hurt that badly, she’s close, look, I don’t think she’s faking, she’s going to-“

Nala’s body convulsed and her mouth opened in a scream neither Sansa nor Dara could hear, before collapsing back onto the bed.

Nala stumbled out of the room a few minutes later, a glazed expression on her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed.  Satin followed, and led Nala over to Dara. “Very good, Nala,” Satin said, “well done. I’ll talk to Harry, don’t worry. Sansa, please take Nala back to the girls' quarters, she's finished for today. Harry will practice with Dara. Sansa, I'll have another pupil waiting for you when you return."

Satin glared in Harry’s direction. "Harry, you're a disgrace to this house. You have much to learn about technique. You didn’t listen to Nala, how she told you to stop-“

Harry shrugged. “Made her peak, didn’t I? Plus, don’t you teach the girls to fight it?”

“When a lesson is about girls pretending to struggle, I will tell you in advance, Harry.” Satin’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t you dare make that assumption again-” Satin slammed the door shut, still shouting at Harry. Sansa put her arm around Nala and helped her down the hall.

Nala slumped against the wall as soon as they turned the corner. She began to cry. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m sorry-“

“Come here,” Sansa said, “come here now.” Sansa held on to Nala as the girl wept. They both sank to the dusty floor.  

“I peaked, I know I did, but I didn’t want to, Sansa, it was like he ripped it out of me, and I _hated_ it.”

Sansa soothed her. “Don’t worry, there's nothing to be sorry for, Satin’s setting him right, he won’t do that again, you won’t have to.” She stroked Nala’s brown hair. _She might, though, if it’s what a client wants. I might have to. It could have been any of us._

 _"_ Sansa?" Jon turned the corner and spotted the pair of them. Sansa ignored the fluttering in her chest at the sight of him. He crouched down next to Nala. "What happened?"

"Harry hurt Nala, back there, in the training room. He's in with Dara now, but I have to take Nala back to the girl's rooms first."

Nala scrubbed at her face. "Jon, please don't tell Satin, please, I won't make trouble, I won't cry anymore. Do it for Sansa's sake, if not for me-"

"I won't say a word, Nala, for your sake," Jon said. "You didn't make trouble. I know what Harry's like." Jon's expression darkened, and Sansa knew then that Harry and Jon had come to blows.  

"Come on," Sansa said, "let's get her back to Ros." Jon and Sansa walked on either side of Nala, stopping every now and then to give her an encouraging word, until they arrived at the door to the girls' rooms. 

Ros fussed over Nala and ushered her inside. "Thank you for escorting Nala and Sansa, Jon."

"Of course," Jon mumbled, "I only wanted to see that Nala got back safely. I was just leaving."

"He needs to get back to the training room and...so do I." Sansa couldn't keep the tremor from her voice. She and Jon didn’t touch each other that way, even if the other pupils did. Sansa sometimes “practiced” with other girls, finding relief in caresses that weren’t unexpected, or unwelcome.

But touch was cheap here, and what she had with Jon was not. They'd brushed hands, and Sansa checked Jon's wounds, but no more. Sansa wanted to cling to the dream of Jon kissing her as pure, and she feared the minute his lips touched hers in this awful place the dream would vanish. 

Ros shook her head firmly. "No, Sansa, I need you here, with Nala. It's essential she has familiar faces around her right now. Jon, report back to Satin. He'll understand." Ros put a hand on Jon's arm as he turned to go. "Wait - are you quite familiar with the hallways?" 

Jon frowned. "Of course I am, I'm a quick learner, I'm-"

Sansa stepped lightly on his toe. _She's trying to give us time, together, Jon._

"The hallways are dark, though," Jon finished lamely.

The corner of Ros's mouth quirked. "They are. Sansa take a moment - and only a moment - to show him." Ros winked at Sansa before closing the door. 

Jon offered her his arm, like they were strolling in a garden, and Sansa took it, relaxing for the first time that day. The world was softer when it was just her and Jon. 

"Are you ready to try for a grand escape?" Jon asked gently.

"What do you mean?"

"Sending a raven to your family. I've stolen the paper, here." Sansa took the small blank scroll from him. "Can you get ink from Ros?"

Sansa nodded. Ros kept a desk in the girls' rooms, with a quill and inkpot.

"But why do you believe this will work, Jon? Weren't you the one who told me our families would believe Lord Baelish's lie about the fever?"

"I did, before I learned who you were, Sansa. I grew up on stories of Ned Stark, everyone in the North did. Your father's Warden of the North. Baelish was mad to steal you. A raven from you is the best chance for all of us."

"Is it true, what Harry said? I'm the only one who's from a great house?"

Jon nudged her. "Well, I'm a bastard, remember? And Harry's from a lesser house in the Vale. He's the closest we've got to a lord in the boys' quarters. How about you? Are there any Tully or Tyrell girls with you? Any other important houses?"

Sansa ran through the list of other girls in her head. She hadn't noticed before, but Jon was right. There were highborn girls, but none with famous names. 

"No, there aren't."

"There you have it then." 

Sansa stopped short as they came to the last turn before the training room. She let go of Jon's arm. I'll be in there, someday soon, if not today, learning how to be a common whore, she thought. Her cheeks burned with shame. 

"Jon...what if my parents don't want me back?"

Jon took her hand, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, he laced his fingers with hers. His hand was warm and calloused. "Was what Harry did to Nala her fault?" 

"No," Sansa said quickly, "of course not."

Jon squeezed her hand. "What happens to you here isn't your fault either, Sansa. Your father won't think so."

"What do you know of him?"

"I was raised by Howland Reed," Jon said. "There wasn't a man in the world he trusted more than your father. They fought together in Robert's Rebellion. If there's an injustice he'll right it. He won't leave you here, Sansa."

Sansa still had her doubts. "Give me a day, Jon, to think of what to write."

"I'll come find you tomorrow night," Jon said.

"Jon?" Satin's voice carried down the corridor. "Jon, are you there? Come here right now."

Jon grimaced. "I hate this, I'll tell Satin off, I'll-"

Sansa shushed him. "Satin was trying to help, Jon. Trying to fix Harry's behavior. Until this grand escape succeeds we need him, and we need Ros. And we need them if it doesn't succeed, too."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do you have to be right about this? It's much easier if I can punch people."

Sansa smiled. "I know, Jon. But the girls can't. And - I'm not sure, Jon, but I think Harry might have taken it out on Nala, do you see? He can't beat you-"

"Not now, not ever," Jon muttered.

Sansa's heart ached, he reminded her so much of Robb. "But Harry can hurt the girls." 

Jon's grey eyes were dark in the dim light. "You're worried about them."

Sansa shrugged. "Anyone would be."

"I'm not sure about that," Jon murmured. "But it doesn't surprise me, coming from you. All right, I'll do my best. It's hard, though. I - I don't like seeing people get hurt either."

"I know you don't. Let's try the scroll, and see where it goes."

"Jon!" Satin's patience was running thin. 

"I can't put him off any longer," Jon said reluctantly. 

Sansa's heart hammered in her chest. "Jon - if you can, remember this training time, try to avoid it. Please don't come when I'm here. I care about you too much. I couldn't bear it if someday the lesson is different, and you have to do to me what Harry did to her." 

Jon came closer. He took her other hand, lacing their fingers together again. "I'll remember," he said hoarsely, "I swear I will." He leaned in, as if to rest his forehead on hers. "Sansa, you know I'd never-"

Satin clapped his hand on Jon's shoulder, forcing Jon and Sansa to jump apart. "Jon, with me. Sansa, you too-"

"No," Sansa said quickly, "Ros said I was to go help Nala, that - that she needs familiar faces."

Satin looked from Sansa, to Jon, to Sansa again. "I see. Yes, Ros is right, of course. Have her send another girl along." Sansa curtseyed before she could stop herself.

"A lady through and through," Satin mused. "You'll do well here. And don't worry. I'll make sure Harry changes his ways. We're not savages."

***

Sansa's fingers still tingled from the touch of Jon's hands, even as she returned to her quarters and sent a small black-haired girl off to Satin. Sansa checked in on Nala throughout the day, and was relieved to see color come back into her cheeks after the evening meal. 

Sansa slipped under her covers that night focused on the escape plan. The scroll, I need to figure out what to write, she thought. Jon's coming over tomorrow night, he"ll ask me...

But she drifted off to sleep before she could compose it, holding the memory of Jon taking her hand in the hallway close to her heart. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa writes to her family, and Jon visits Sansa in the night.

Sansa waited until Ros's morning lesson was over before stepping over to Ros's desk and snatching the quill and ink pot. She was almost out the door when Dara called out to her. 

"Where are you off to, Sansa?"

"S-Satin asked for me," Sansa stammered. "A make up lesson."

Dara narrowed her eyes. "What've you got behind your back?"

"Leave her alone, Dara. She's right, Ros told me, she needs to make up for the time she spent taking care of me yesterday. I'll practice with you." Nala gave Sansa a slight nod before beckoning Dara over. 

Ros told you no such thing, Sansa thought, but she wasn't about to question her good fortune. She slipped out the door and over to the corner of the hallway. 

But when she dipped the quill in the ink, she didn't know where to begin. She still didn't understand why Lord Baelish had captured her. If he'd wanted to steal a girl from a great house, why not Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden? Highgarden was closer than Winterfell, and even Sansa had heard of Margaery's stunning looks and charm.

Sansa bit her lip. She'd answered her own question. Margaery would be recognized easily in King's Landing. The Starks were well-known too, but they famously avoided going South.

My family is far away, she thought sadly, and my aunt and cousin died of the fever. They won't come looking for me, like Highgarden would for Margaery. Part of her hoped they didn't, given what had become of her.  

But Jon had sounded so sure about her father, so confident. And she owed it to the others to try. 

I only have one chance, she thought. Paper's harder to come by than ink. She stilled the shaking of her hands and dipped the quill again.

_Father, I'm alive. Lord Baelish has stolen me and other children, and lied about us dying from the fever. We are in King's Landing, at-_

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She thought of her mother, and the lessons she'd taught her about being a proper lady. Of her father, promising her someone brave and gentle and strong to marry. A lifetime ago, before she'd learned how vicious the world could be. 

Do it for the rest of the girls, if not for yourself.

She started again. ... _the Pink Pearl. It's a brothel in King's Landing. This is the only raven I can send. Please save us. Your loving daughter, Sansa_. 

***

Sansa’s bunk was closest to the door, and only she heard the knock that night. Jon. She slipped quietly off her mattress and peeked between the gap in the doorframe.

“Jon?” She could scarcely make him out in the dim light of the hallway. He’d been smart enough not to bring a candle this time. He unlocked the door as Sansa held her breath.

"How did you get the key?" Sansa asked.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. "Best you don't know. Do you have the scroll?" She pulled it out from under her pillow and gave it to him. He tucked it away.

"You should send one too," Sansa whispered. "To your family."

Jon sighed. "I'll try, Sansa. I don't think I can get to more than one raven. But I'll try. Can you come with me?”

Sansa held back, torn between the desire to be with him and the fear of getting caught. "Why?"

"I...please, Sansa, come, if you can?"

Sansa glanced back at the rows of sleeping girls. Bold, to sneak out in the middle of the night, but she'd never heard that tone in Jon's voice before.  She nodded. “We have to be quick, though, or-“

“I know.”

She thanked the gods for the night’s warmth as Jon opened the door and held out his hand. Her thin shift was all she had. She'd only receive smallclothes when she graduated, and then only if it was necessary to seduce a client, according to Ros. Part of the “oh good ser, please don’t defile me” routine, where men would want to tear off her clothes. Lord Baelish, always prepared, kept a supply of smallclothes for that purpose. Cheap wisps of fabric that looked expensive.

_Like us_ , Sansa thought, _like all of us. False gold_.

Jon squeezed her hand. “Sansa?”

"I’m all right,” she murmured. “Just...tired."

They stopped at the end of the corridor. The moonlight through the window slits revealed a small door. Jon ran his hand along a faint indentation in the wood. “The guards don’t bother with the door to this staircase. I’m not sure they know it exists.”

“And how did you find it? Magic?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Yes,” Jon said, “I didn’t know how to tell you, but I’m a sorcerer.”

Sansa swatted his arm as she held back a laugh. Only Jon could bring back the lively girl she’d been. “Don’t, they’ll hear us.” She glanced over her shoulder.

“Then we need to go now,” Jon said, and pushed. The door swung open noiselessly, much to Sansa’s relief. A crumbling stone staircase was shrouded in shadows. They climbed swiftly up the steps. Jon eased aside the trap door at the top.

Sansa closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Even the pungent smells of King’s Landing were welcome – air she’d complained about bitterly when she’d caught the breeze on the Kingsroad during her journey a lifetime ago. The scent of dung from the horses, and the fragrance of overripe fruit from hawker's stands. All of it meant life outside these walls. 

“Never knew shit could smell so good, did you?”

“Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

"I did, when I first came up here. Cut it close, coming back.”

“Jon...”

“I know,” he said softly, “don’t worry, I left in plenty of time.” It was a lie, she suspected, but a kind one, and at least he felt guilty enough to make it. “Open your eyes, Sansa.”

Sansa stared at the meandering streets of King’s Landing laid out before them. “It’s so large,” she whispered. _So free._

“Come to the edge,” Jon said. “You can see better.”

He led her across the roof and around the large brick smoke stack that fed the brothel’s central fires. Sansa gasped as the moon came into view. It glowed soft white, hanging like a huge pearl in the sky.

“It’s beautiful," she whispered, and turned to smile at Jon. He had a peculiar expression on his face, one she couldn’t place.

“Sit with me.” He brought her over to a little raised platform where they could sit together and swing their feet, while still staying back from the roof’s edge. The sounds of a few drunkards singing and swearing filtered up from the city below. Otherwise it was just the two of them. Sansa shivered. The night was warm, but a breeze blew over the rooftop.

“I don’t have anything I can give you," Jon said, "but...only if you want to?” He held out his arm, inviting her to come closer, and Sansa smiled and curled up next to him. The weight of his arm was warm and reassuring around her shoulder. This was an extension of the kind of touch they shared, intimate but not sexual. Sansa tamped down the tremor that ran through her at the heat of Jon's body.

“The moon, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so bright,” she sighed.

Jon nodded. “It’s why I brought you here. It’s the Maiden’s Moon, it only happens once a year, and I...your songs, I thought you’d like it.” His voice was hesitant, and Sansa squeezed her eyes shut.

_He’s trying to tell me I’m beautiful, I’m pure, despite this filthy place, despite what we do, but he’s wrong,_ “you’re wrong, Jon, I don’t believe in songs anyone, it’s a stupid name for a moon, to fool stupid girls who can’t – who can’t – who-“ She buried her face in his shoulder. She was afraid of losing her innocence entirely, and furious that it mattered, after all these days.

“It’s still yours.” Jon said. “The Moon, she loves you, whether you love yourself or not. It doesn’t matter what happens here, what they do to you, you’re a maiden inside, Sansa, that’s what matters.”

_Is that why Lord Baelish sells maidens for such high prices?_ “It’s a lie,” she spat.

Jon took a deep breath. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe, but it feels true to me, when it comes to you.”

Sansa cracked entirely then, crying against Jon’s shirt, great heaving sobs that shook her whole body. She cried for the loss of the girl she’d been. For Nala. For this boy who’d tried to bring her back, or maybe to tell her she’d never been lost to begin with.

Jon didn’t say anything else. He held her under she’d cried herself out. She felt cleaner, lighter afterwards. She clung to Jon now because she wanted to keep him close. This was cheating, enjoying an embrace that went beyond comfort, but Sansa couldn’t stop.

She turned her head to look at the moon again, still ensconced in Jon’s arms. It was beautiful, and white, and pure, even though it hung over a city that allowed rot like this brothel to flourish.

“If it’s true for me, it’s true for you too, Jon,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t matter what happens to you here either. This moon’s for you too. It has to be for both of us, or I won’t believe you.”

“I’m to be a maiden?”

“You know what I mean,” Sansa said softly.

Jon's breath hitched. “All right, Sansa, all right. It’s – it’s for me too. For both of us.”

They stayed that way for a long time, until the moon dipped low in the sky, before they separated and went back to their bunks on opposite sides of the house.   


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Catelyn Stark continue their desperate search for their daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's family has been been looking for her the whole time! This is my first crack at writing Ned/Cat. I hope you like it!

The fire in Ned’s office was too warm, but that didn't stop Catelyn from adding logs as she waited for Ser Rodrik’s report. She insisted on being present each time there was news of their search efforts.

Ned Stark ran a hand over his face. Stacks of paper surrounded his desk. Correspondence he hadn’t answered, petitions he hadn’t heard. 

We can’t keep this up forever, he thought, as the logs popped and crackled in the fire. He’d used the winter storms as an excuse for putting off riding South after accepting Robert’s offer to be Hand of the King in the wake of Jon Arryn’s death. He’d been so consumed by the pain of Sansa’s loss that he’d barely registered the terrible news about his old friend. Nevertheless, he’d accepted Robert's offer. What choice did he have?

Catelyn paced. “When will Ser Rodrik get here?”

“Soon, my love.” Ned had been as stunned as she was when the scroll about Sansa’s death had arrived. He hadn’t given himself permission to be heartsick, because that would mean Sansa was gone. And she couldn’t be. He refused to believe it. So did his wife. Especially when Sansa’s direwolf stalked the edges of the forest each night. Lady still believed Sansa was alive. It had to be true. It had to be.

 _Lady also thinks she is in danger_ , a voice whispered.

Ned poured his wife a glass of wine, to stop her from wearing a hole in the carpet. He was rattled enough. “How is Robb holding up?”

Catelyn paused long enough to take the glass from him. “Still furious he can’t be part of the ranging parties. I’ve told him I need his help handling Arya and Bran and Rickon. He’s to keep them out of trouble. But I don’t blame him for wanting to ride out with a sword in his hand.”

“Neither do I,” Ned said. He’d give in to the impulse if he was twenty years younger. He’d involved Robb in developing the strategy for searching the Kingsroad, to give him a way to funnel his anger into something useful. Robb devised the plan they were using now – fifteen men, searching the Kingsroad and surrounding towns ten miles at a time. Catelyn had balked – the men progressed more slowly that way – but Ned stepped in and said he’d never forgive himself if Sansa was in a town they hadn’t searched.

The rangers sent ravens back to Ser Rodrik at Winterfell each time a search was complete. In two months, they’d only searched seventy miles of the hundreds and hundreds between Winterfell and King’s Landing.

Soon the snow would melt, and so would his excuses for not riding South. A king did not like to be put off for too long.

Catelyn stood next to the fire. “Perhaps we should ride south now, Ned. Robb could handle Ser Rodrik. We might find her on the Kingsroad ourselves-“

“We’ve discussed this, Cat.”

“And now we’re discussing it again.” She was nothing if not stubborn. “You’re a trained solder, and I wouldn’t be a burden. I’m a faster rider than you are.”

Ned gave her a weary smile. “You are. But I’m Warden of the North. If we get word that she’s been found, I can call upon other houses to help us. That kind of command needs to come from a lord sitting in Winterfell, not a lord on his way to become the Hand of a new king in the South. And we have no idea how many men we might need. What kind of danger she might be in. Please, a little longer."

“I can’t bear it Ned."  Catelyn set her wine down on the desk and slumped into a chair. "I just can’t bear it, sitting here, doing nothing–“

They both jumped up at the sharp knock on the door. Ned squeezed her hand. “Let’s see what he has to say, and then we can talk again.”

Catelyn squeezed his hand back. “I know when I’m being placated, husband. But very well. Send him in.”

“Enter,” Ned said. Ser Rodrik stepped into the room. His clothes were impeccable as ever, but he’d let his beard grow out. The stiff-backed man had made no complaints about the searches, even though they’d cost a significant portion of Winterfell’s best men. He bowed. “My lord, my lady, the latest report...still no sign of her, I’m afraid. We’ll start on the next stretch of road right away.”

A softer knock sounded on the door. That’s Maester Luwin, Ned thought. We’ll have quite the group tonight. “Come in.”

Maester Luwin’s wizened face was remorseful. "Please excuse the interruption, my lord, but I’ve just received a raven. No seal, just string. Very unusual.”

Ser Rodrik stroked his beard. “Could be an updated report. The rangers might have misplaced the Stark seal.”

Unlikely, Ned thought. He took the scroll from Maester Luwin.

_Father, I'm alive. Lord Baelish has stolen me and other children, and lied about us dying from the fever. We are in King's Landing, at the Pink Pearl, a brothel in King's Landing. This is the only raven I can send. Please save us. Your loving daughter, Sansa._

Ned trembled as he handed the scroll to Catelyn. The way Sansa signed her name made his eyes swim. He remembered Sansa writing invitations, when she was a little lady of three, asking him to tea with her dolls. He’d had to hold the quill with her, to help her with the letter S. Sansa had beamed up at him when she got it right. 

“That man,” Ned growled, "that disgusting man, he’s trapped her in King’s Landing-“

“Now,” Catelyn said, her voice shaking with fury, “now, we ride out tonight. Have the horses saddled, Ser Rodrik.”

Ned let out a shuddering breath. “Wait, wait.” He tried to place a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.

“Wait? While that monster has my daughter? While Sansa lives inside a brothel, and men..." Her voice cracked.

Ned put his arm around her. “I know, I know, love, I’d tear that place down right now to free her if I could, but she’s hundreds of miles from here.”

“Which is why we are wasting breath every moment we aren’t on the road,” Catelyn said.

Maester Luwin took the scroll from her. “May I, my lady?”

She gave him a short nod. “Yes. Show it to Ser Rodrik. Show it to the world. Write to Robert, Ned. Tell him we are riding for King’s Landing, and tell him to save our daughter.”

“A good plan,” Maester Luwin said, in that voice Ned had head him use when Bran had figured out half of a problem, but not the whole of it. “But if Sansa's death was Cersei Lannister’s doing, we have to consider the possibility she might intercept the scroll.”

“And do what?” Catelyn asked. “Something worse that holding my daughter in a brothel?” Her blue eyes blazed.

“Yes, my lady,” Maester Luwin said. A strong and formidable heart beat underneath his grey robes, Ned thought.

She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, her voice was calmer, but her eyes still burned into Maester Luwin’s. “You would agree with me, Maester Luwin, that this is either Cersei’s doing, or Lord’s Baelish’s?”

Despite everything, Ned hid his smile. She'd solved the problem somehow - he wasn’t sure how – but he knew that look, and he knew his wife. She had a temper, but she had intelligence to match.

Maeter Luwin inclined his head. “Yes, my lady.”

“And if I could prove to you that these scrolls came from Lord Baelish, not Cersei, would you agree a raven to Robert that mentions Sansa would be less risky?”

“Not without risk,” Maester Luwin said mildly, “but less dangerous. You must understand, there are no scrolls in the archives from Cersei Lannister or Lord Baelish.”

Catelyn drummed her fingers on the desk. “Please retrieve the two scrolls from King’s Landing with the Lannister seal. Return here, and you shall have your answer.”

“Very well, my lady.” Maester Luwin bowed and left.

She turned to Ned. “I need to go to my chambers love, I’ll be right back.”

“What could you have that would solve this mystery?”

“Years ago, Lysa gave me the scroll Petyr sent to my father, when he officially challenged Brandon to a duel. She stole it from the Tully library." Catelyn sighed. "I kept it, because I was a green girl who thought what Petyr had done was romantic."

The romance I wasn’t able to give you, Ned thought. He felt queasy. The love they’d built, brick by brick and stone by stone, seemed solid underneath him. But if Cat had saved the scroll-

She kissed Ned’s forehead, breaking him out of his reverie. Ser Rodrik busied himself looking out the window.

“Don't, Ned. Don't do this to yourself. I love you more than any man in the world. I haven’t thought of that scroll in twenty years. But it might help us save Sansa from the monster Petyr's become." She touched his cheek, and looked into his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

They shared five children, and a home together. They ruled side by side, supporting and caring for one another. And that was more than enough for any man. He kissed her forehead. “Always, love. Now go quickly, Maester Luwin will be here soon.”

She kissed him once more on the lips, then squeezed his hand before she left.

Ned walked over to Ser Rodrik by the window. The hills outside were dark grey – twilight was approaching. Ned could see a few stars through the clouds.

Ser Rodrik gestured with his chin, “The melting snow should make for an easier journey, my lord.”

Ned clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve never properly thanked you for having faith in us. Keeping the search going. I’m sure it seems like madness from the outside.”

“You would have had to order me to stop,” Ser Rodrik said gruffly. “We all miss her. Everyone in the castle does. We want to bring her home safely, same as you. You’ve got a location now. I’ll order the rangers to ride North to meet you when you set out on the road. You and the men should make good time, and Lady Stark can get some rest.”

She'll ride out with us, Ned thought, there’ll be no stopping her, now that we know where Sansa is. He heard the same soft knock on the door.

“Come in, Maester Luwin.” The maester entered, with Catelyn right behind him.

She strode over to Ned’s desk. “All these maps, Ned, move them, please.” Ned snatched them up before she could shove them off the table and onto the floor. “Maester Luwin, your scrolls."

The Maester placed them on the flat surface. “The handwriting matches, but we knew that much before."

Catelyn took a worn, folded scroll from her pocket and laid it down next to Maester Luwin’s. “Petyr’s challenge to Brandon Stark, submitted to my father, of House Tully.”

Maester Luwin pulled a loupe from his pocket to examine the writing closely. He pointed to the Tully scroll. “This is the work of a young boy, but yes, you’re right, this is Lord Baelish’s handwriting.”

"Petyr’s too clever by half,” she mused. “He’ll know we don’t have a scroll from him at Winterfell. So he thinks he’s safe.” Her expression darkened. “He should enjoy the feeling, because it won’t last long. We’re coming for him.”

She might have been born in the South, Ned thought, but she was a wolf hunting for her cub now.

She turned to Maester Luwin. “Do you agree that it is safer to write to Robert about Sansa?”

“I do," Maester Luwin conceded. “It seems a risk worth taking.” He gathered the two scrolls. “Please forgive me, Lady Stark, if I doubted you. I only want to make sure we have the best chance of bringing Sansa Stark home. I am glad you’ve gotten this news tonight. We miss her.”

Catelyn's eyes softened. “Thank you, Maester Luwin.” Once the maester and Ser Rodrik left, she went to cast Petyr’s scroll into the fire. Ned stayed her hand.

“Ned, please. I'd rather burn it,” she pleaded.

Ned drew her close. “I was being a jealous old man, my love. And we may need that as proof, when we reach King’s Landing.”

“You know I’m coming with you,” she murmured.

Ned stroked her hair. He caught the scent of the rosewater she used to wash it, and his heart ached at the thought of the grueling march ahead of them. They might be able to stop at inns along the way, but his wife would have to give up luxuries like long, hot baths. They'd sleep on the ground some nights. He hated to do that to her. But he knew she'd endure it gladly, to get to Sansa. “Yes, I know. We need to ride hard.”

She looked up at him. “I’m as tough as any of your Northern men."

 _Tougher, in many ways_. "You are." He chucked her under the chin, because it made her smile. "We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“I think...I think we might find her, Ned.” The dam started to break in Ned’s own heart, and soon they were both crying. “Every day she’s there, though-“

Ned kissed the tears from her cheeks before they could fall. “You can’t think about it, Cat, you can’t, you’ll go mad.” _And so will I_. “We’re going after her. Focus on that.”

Catelyn sighed. “I’ll try. For you, and for Sansa.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark's scroll arrives at King's Landing. Cersei Lannister and Lord Varys have different ideas about how to deal with its contents. Sansa graduates, and becomes a courtesan. Petyr gives her a new name, and explains why she's special to him. Sansa and Jon share a meal and a secret, as they discuss what their lives have become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's about to get rough for a patch, everybody, and I need you to remember that Ned and Cat are on the way! They are riding to save their daughter. Jon and Sansa have some more trials to go through before they're rescued, but help is coming!
> 
> (This fic is un-beta'ed, all mistakes are mine.)

Cersei sat by Robert’s bedside, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose. The milk of the poppy couldn’t hide the stink of the wound. Robert slept, breathing heavily.

 _Did it hurt, dear husband, When the boar speared you? Did you suffer?_   She hoped so, but she frowned nevertheless. That idiot cousin of hers, Lancel, hadn’t sufficiently spiked the wine. She should be in mourning by now, presenting a grieving face to the court while preparing for Joffrey's reign.

Grand Maester Pycelle finished his ministrations on the other side of the bed. He blinked owlishly. “He’ll recover, Your Grace, never fear, he’s stronger than he looks, but it will take time. The masters will watch him closely.”

No chance to finish him off then, Cersei thought. But Robert was bedridden and in pain. She could relish that for a few weeks or months if need be. She dismissed Pycelle with a wave of her hand and poured herself a glass of wine. A moment alone was too much to ask, however, as Varys bowed and entered.

The Master of Spiders, Cersei thought with disdain. A useful man, though she had her doubts about whether his spy network was better that hers or Littlefinger’s. Still, it didn’t hurt to have him in sight, under her roof.

Varys’s slippers whispered on the floor as he approached. He handed her a scroll. “From Winterfell, my queen.” He cast a sad glance in Robert’s direction. “I am so sorry for your dear husband’s condition. The realm needs a fine, strong King like Robert. I’m sure the maesters will minister to him with the utmost care.”

Cersei kept herself from rolling her eyes. She snapped the wax of the black seal emblazoned with a direwolf. Ned Stark. She sighed. As long as Robert lived, she couldn’t appoint Jaime as Hand of the King. Some drivel about how he won’t want a tourney, no doubt, Cersei thought scornfully. Starks and their honor.

Cersei almost dropped her glass as she read the scroll.

_Robert,_

_My daughter Sansa has been stolen by Lord Baelish, along with other children from across the realm. She’s being held prisoner at a brothel, the Pink Pearl. Please, for the love you bear me, rescue her, and as many children as you can. My wife and I are riding for King’s Landing now. You will have my eternal gratitude if you grant me this boon._

_Your loyal servant, Hand of the King, Ned Stark_

Fever? Stolen children? Trapped in one of Littlefinger’s whore houses? Cersei was stunned. What had Littlefinger been thinking?

“Troubling news, my queen?” Varys peered at her.

Cersei schooled her features into a mask. This secret was far too useful to share. “Nothing of concern, Lord Varys, only a letter from Ned Stark, and his travel plans. You are making the proper preparations for his tourney?” Of course Varys was, she didn’t need to ask, but it was a safe topic.

Varys bobbed his head. “We are. A celebration fit for a man of his stature. Lord Baelish is seeing to the purse for the tourney.” A chill ran up Cersei’s spine at the mention of Littlefinger. She’d held the scroll close to her face as she read – she was no green girl, she knew Varys’s games – but perhaps he’d seen?

“Lord Stark’s scroll mentions no one else, but I’d be surprised if he arrived alone. Who do you think will travel with him, Lord Varys?” Cersei watched Varys’s hands closely. He had a small tic, she’d learned over the years, of twisting the ring on his pinkie finger when he lied.

Varys’s hands were perfectly still. “Robb, I suspect. He’ll want to give the boy a chance to be introduced at court, perhaps to meet Princess Myrcella. Lady Catelyn can ably hold the North in his stead.”

It was a solid guess, and wrong. Cersei smiled to herself. “Yes, I think you’re right. See to it that we are prepared to give his son Robb a royal welcome.”  

“Yes, my queen.” Varys gave her a conspiratorial smirk. “It would be like Ned, not to think of the importance of mentioning his guests. I mean no disrespect to your husband, as Robert is both brave and wise, but Ned Stark will have much to learn when he arrives.”

“On that we agree, Lord Varys. Now, I’d like to have some time alone with my husband.” Varys bowed deeply and closed the door behind him.

Cersei took another sip of wine. Exactly how Sansa Stark had been abducted she wasn’t sure, but it would be helpful to have Sansa as a hostage when Ned came to the capital. She debated whether to speak to Littlefinger, to hold his crimes over his head, but decided against it. _If I tell him, he might spirit Sansa away to another location_.

As it stood, someone had done her the favor of kidnapping Ned Stark’s eldest daughter. She had a political prisoner, without doing any of the work. And it would be at least four months until Ned Stark arrived at the capital. That Northern wife of his would slow him down. They’d need to stay at inns along the way, to ensure her comfort. She had time to contemplate her next move.

***

Ros shook Sansa awake. “It’s time, dear. Time for you to graduate.”

Sansa's heart sank.  _It can't be three months yet, it can't be_. But she'd outgrown her training gown once, and Satin had told then the week before that this lesson would be the last. I've been in denial, she thought, but there's no use fighting it. Sansa smoothed her hands over her white shift before following Ros to Lord Baelish’s office. She knew what came next, and she dreaded it.

Lord Baelish smiled at Sansa as he swung open the door to his office. “A special day, sweet one. Your full transition into the palace arts. You’ve trained well, and it’s time to you to move from pupil to courtesan.”

 _Whore, you mean_ , Sansa thought, but she stayed silent.

The walls of Lord Baelish’s office were linked with dark bookshelves, and an oversize desk took up the right wall. Beaded curtains hung from the windows, as they did from each and every window, giving the room a pinkish hue. Lord Baelish never wanted them to forget where they were, that he controlled their lives down to the light itself.

A stooped maester in saffron robes knocked and entered, armed with needles and an array of ink pots.  Lord Baelish walked over to the selection. He picked up a clay pot, inhaling its scent. “Perfumed with lavender, to make the experience more pleasant for all of us. Lay back on the settee, Sansa, and put your right foot on the armrest.”

Sansa did as he asked, heart pounding. Lord Baelish gestured for the maester to stand by Sansa’s foot.

“You’ll receive your mark today, sweetling. Not a teardrop, you’re not a slave. This is a palace of pleasure and enjoyment, where fantasies take flight.” Lord Baelish’s eyes were glistening, as they did when he was caught up in his grandiose visions. “The mark of a bird, instead.“

A mockingbird, Sansa thought, with a sinking stomach. Like the one that hung at the throat of Lord Baelish’s jackets. _We’re not just slaves, we’re his slaves, and he wants us marked as such._

“On the bottom of your foot, dear, nothing as crass or uncouth as your face.”

And nothing the clients will see, Sansa thought.

“Only a shade darker than your skin, I have them specially mixed for all of you. I order them months in advance.” 

Lord Baelish walked over and caressed her cheek as she lay before him in nothing but her white shift. His eyes roved over her body. He smiled, showing his teeth, as the maester lifted Sansa’s foot and got to work.

The needle stung, but what followed was worse. Lord Baelish dismissed the maester quickly – “I’ll have more girls for you this afternoon–“  then reached into his desk drawer and presented Sansa with a package wrapped like a gift. Sansa carefully peeled back, remembering what it was like to open presents with Arya and Bran and Rickon on their name days.

“Like a name day gift, yes?”

Sansa winced inwardly at how Lord Baelish seemed to read her mind. She lifted away the last of the paper to reveal a blue chiffon gown, sheer and short.

“Blue for your eyes,” Lord Baelish said, “and for your new name day, here at the Pink Pearl.” He drew her close and kissed her, shoving his tongue into her mouth. Sansa fought not to squirm.

Lord Baelish’s eyes were gleaming when he pulled back. “There, now you’re our Alayne, within these walls. Sansa Stark is gone. Tell me. Tell me what your new name is.”

 _This is the moment he’s worked for since he captured us from the Kingsroad. The moment of his triumph_.

“My name is Alayne, Lord Baelish,” Sansa said, and curtseyed.

He stroked her hair.  “Call me Petyr.”

 _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you_. She curtseyed again.

“My name is Alayne, Petyr.”

“Good girl.”

The raven, Sansa thought desperately, he doesn’t know about the raven.

“One more gift, for you, sweet Alayne.” Petyr walked over to his desk, and pulled out a wad of paper. He beckoned her over. “Here, pet, look for yourself.”

The ink was smudged and the paper looked as if it had been soaked in water. Sansa couldn’t make out the writing. But it was a scroll, no doubt about it. Sansa swallowed. Our scroll.

“Do you think there’s a message that leaves this building I don’t know about? My men caught Jon trying to send this. He was fool enough to do it on a rainy day. Still, the bird might have made it...if my men hadn’t gotten there first.” He tilted her chin. “This is your home now, Alayne. I would have risked stealing a hundred more children, just to get to you.”

“Why?” Sansa whispered.

“Oh, a lifetime ago, I loved your lady mother. She cast me aside. Not the proper bloodline, not highborn enough for her.  But now I have you in my grasp. I can do what I please with you, my sweet Alayne, and you'll never see her again. Now go, and make our clients happy.”

***

Sansa performed before man after man, the weeks blurring into months as they pawed at her. Eventually Sansa stopped counting her bruises and scrapes and scratches. They healed, after all, scarring over and blurring into each other.

A few surprised her with their kindness – Oberyn Martell had given her pleasure first before he took her maiden’s gift, having paid dearly for it. Willas Tyrell had wanted only to brush out her hair.

Willas had given her a silver coin to keep for herself. Though it meant a beating – all money was to be handed over to Petyr, the master of coin here and at King’s Landing – she kept it, rubbed it between her fingers at night. It reminded her of the moon, and Jon.

She saw Jon less and less, so it was a treat when he sat next to her, a month after her new name day, in the dining hall where the pupils-turned-courtesans still broke their fasts. He had a gash on his cheek. The swelling had faded. _Two or three days ago, then_.

She reached up to touch his cheek. He caught her hand and she blushed and turned back to her porridge. Don’t be foolish, stay alive and unhurt. Their rules, unspoken but agreed on early.

“I like your beard,” she said lightly. Jon’s beard had grown in fully. It made him look older, more Northern, even more handsome.

“I don’t,” Jon said shortly. “The women want something different, now that I don’t look like a boy. They want...”

“To be treated roughly,” Sansa finished. Plenty of men had done it to her, when her first blue gown grew too short and Petyr had a skimpier one made, showing off her new curves, emphasizing her ripeness.

Jon’s hand tightened on her wrist. “Are you all right?”

“As all right as any of us are,” Sansa shrugged. “I’m sorry they ask that of you.”

“I don’t mind so much, when the client wants it,” Jon mused, and Sansa hid her smile. The boy who’d fought so hard at the beginning had learned the arts and adapted. “It surprised me, but it pleases them, and...well, I like to please them.” He blushed a deep red.

“You’re embarrassed about pleasing women?”

“No, it’s...harder to float above it all, when I do. When I give them something their husbands or lovers can’t. When they thank me for it, even if I don’t like it myself.“

“Too personal,” Sansa said, eating her porridge in small bites.

“Yes, Lady Sansa.” He smiled.

“Jon!”

“You still eat like a lady,” Jon said. “You taste porridge as if it’s sweet fruit pudding from the Summer Isles.”

Sansa smirked. “What would you know about sweet fruit pudding, my lord?”

”I’m not a lord,” Jon said. “Just a bastard. But I grew up at feasts, like you did. I remember them again, watching you.”

Sansa ducked her head, away from Jon’s dark eyes. She deliberately shoved a large spoonful of porridge into her mouth, chewing.

Jon snorted. “Never mind, you win, what’s a feast? I’ve no idea.”

Sansa set her spoon aside. “The swelling’s faded, Jon, but can I still help you with the cut?”

“Better not,” he said gently, “they watch us more closely, now.”

The fragile bonds Petry and the guards had overlooked when they were younger were no longer allowed. All their time and energy had to be dedicated to pouring gold into Petyr’s pockets.

“Jon...” Sansa had to tell him the bad news, about the scroll. “The raven, it didn’t make it. Petyr showed me. It might be time to give up.”

Jon gave her a half-smile. “Did you read it?”

“No.”

“Don't you think he would have forced you to?”

“He tried. But the water had destroyed it. He told me the raven got caught in a storm.”

“Did you think a client gave me this cut on my cheek? I had to grab a raven quickly, Sansa, to get our message out. Petyr’s guards caught me. They snatched Howland Reed’s scroll away, beat me in other places you can’t see, but I’d already sent yours. I swear to you, I saw that bird fly away. Petyr wants to crush your hope. He probably took that second scroll, and dunked it in water. So he’d have a prop to drain the hope out of you. But I watched that bird till it was a speck in the sky, Sansa, and the sun shone that day. Keep your eyes and ears open. Listen at doors when you can. There’s still a chance we got word to your father. Here, to keep your spirits up.”

Jon slipped her a package under the table. Chocolate, Sansa could tell by the weight and feel.

“So I can’t help you, but you can still bring me gifts?” She teased.

Jon swallowed. “It might be the last one, Sansa. It might be the last time we can talk.”

Sansa’s throat tightened. Jon was being smart about this, and she wasn’t sure why it hurt so much.

“Sansa,” Jon said, his voice low, “if I don’t see you again–“

Petyr swept into the room, green cloak trailing behind him. His beady eyes took in each couple, and each person sitting alone. He was reading dynamics, and devising punishments. He was about to glance at Jon and Sansa.  

Sansa tucked the chocolate into her pocket. She squeezed Jon’s thigh under the table, while plastering a bored expression on her face.

“No,” she murmured, “we’ll find a way, we will, this isn’t goodbye.”

It was a lie, but a kind one. Jon placed his hand over hers briefly before turning back to his porridge.

Sansa held her tears back until she fell onto her mattress that night. She took out her coin and kissed it, wishing Jon would come for her. That they could flee, and make a life together anywhere but in this hateful maze of deceit and pain.

***

Varys splashed water on his face in his chambers. He took his evening meal alone, as was his habit, and tucked into roast duck and grapes as he pondered the day’s events. He thought back to Ned’s scroll.

Such a risk the man had taken, sending a raven packed with explosive news. Varys shook his head. Families were reckless when it came to the welfare of their loved ones. As a eunuch, with no parents he cared to remember, Varys was free from that constraint. But Ned Stark was fortunate that Varys’s skills extended to reading sealed scrolls before delivering them.

Varys patted his mouth with his napkin as he remembered Cersei’s transparent gambit to learn if he’d seen the scroll. He’d convinced her of his “tic” years ago, and used it to his advantage.  No doubt she’d burned the scroll by now – she wasn’t without her wits entirely. He sighed. At least he’d managed to thwart her assassination attempt, though he knew he couldn’t keep Robert alive forever.

He’d unraveled the secret of Jon Arryn’s death a week ago – the bastard Gendry had been the final piece in the puzzle – but he planned to bide his time, waiting for an ideal opportunity to put the best ruler for the realm on the Iron Throne. Ned Stark might just be that man, in the wake of Robert’s death.

As for the girl...Varys felt a brief pang at the suffering she must have gone through. But she was secured in a hidden location, and alerting Littlefinger was too dangerous. She’d have to wait it out.

Besides, Ned and Catelyn Stark would arrive sooner than Cersei expected. Cersei had a habit of underestimating other women. Varys had heard enough reports of Catelyn Stark, though, to know she’d ride as hard as her husband for the capital. And before they came to King’s Landing, Varys would meet them on the Kingsroad. He’d help them rescue Sansa. He’d secure Ned Stark’s loyalty, before the kingdom plunged into chaos.  

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Cat continue to ride for King's Landing, stopping at an inn along the way. Petyr calls on Jon to break through Sansa's defenses, but Sansa and Jon defy him. They spend a night together on their own terms instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the lowest point in the story, but we're on the upswing after this, I promise! Thanks for sticking with me.

Ned glanced at the inn's gilded sign before entering and securing lodging for his party. They were a week ahead of Ser Rodrick’s estimates. They were making good time, better than he could have hoped for.

The men who’d thought Catelyn would slow them down now flagged behind her, struggling to keep up as she rode hard day after day.

He made the usual, fruitless inquiry after Sansa, and was met with the same blank looks they’d seen up and down the Kingsroad. He placed enough silver into the innkeeper's hand to pay for one night. The men had asked for two, but Catelyn’s glare had silenced them.

At least the inn was clean, if rowdy. A group of drunken men sang bawdy songs by the fire, and a tired, plump waitress scurried between the tables, carrying trays of bread and cheese. The meat roasting over the spit smelled delicious. Ned’s stomach rumbled. He’d be glad to have a meal heartier than skinned rabbit. It would do Catelyn good too. He didn’t like the gaunt shape of her cheeks.

The group found a table in the corner to themselves. The innkeeper was sharp enough to recognize men of rank, even though they’d dressed as regular travelers. And Ned's abundance of silver told its own story. The waitress was deferential, bringing them the choices cuts of meat and keeping their mugs of ale full. That earned him a few dirty looks, especially from the men by the fireplace.

Let them look, Ned thought wearily. The meat was juicy and seasoned. Every man asked for seconds, then thirds. Even Catelyn refilled her plate. As the night wore on and the musicians began to play their harps and sing their songs, Ned and Catelyn prompted the men to retire to their rooms. They’d make an early start the next morning.

The innkeeper showed Ned and Cat the finest room on the top floor, and Ned accepted willingly. He asked for a bath to be drawn for Cat, before she could protest. Cat shot him a look, but the groan of relief she made when she slid into the hot water made Ned smile. He bathed after she did.

Catelyn’s brow was furrowed as she brushed out her hair. She was lovely, his wife, and Ned looked forward to sharing a feather mattress with her, rather than a hard roll of blankets of the ground.

“Come to bed, Cat,” he said softly. “You need your rest, and we’ll find her, I promise.”

Catelyn put down her brush. “I believe you, husband.” She set her face into a grim line. “But do not ask me of my plans for Petyr Baelish. You married a soft Southern woman, prone to kindness and courtesy. All the ways I’ll make him pay – you might think less of me Ned.”

“I married a woman with steel as well as softness,” Ned said, “and I’m proud of both.” He walked over to her. Best to break this news now, before they were in sight of King’s Landing. “We may need to put him to a trial, Cat.”

Catelyn whirled in her seat. “A trial? A trial?” She yanked the paper from her pocket. “This scroll is all the proof we need. That, and our daughters tear-stained face. You would show him mercy, Ned? There is no mercy for such acts as his.”

“I will show him justice,” Ned said, “in the daylight.”

Catelyn turned away from him, and stood by the window.  

Ned sighed and went over to the basin, splashing water on his face. He needed to let her get used to the idea.

Catelyn made a soft noise. “Ned...would you come here?” Her voice was full of wonder. Ned joined her by the window. Catelyn pointed in the moonlight.

“It’s the maiden’s moon, Cat said softly. “I haven’t thought of that story in ages. I meant to tell Sansa the story, before she married, when she was older. I thought we had time, Ned. Time for her to be a girl a little longer, to make mud pies with Arya before we talked of marriage.”

Ned swallowed past the lump in his throat. “She’s still our little girl, Cat.”

Catelyn leaned into him. “She’s so sweet, such a lady. That place, they’ll eat her alive–“

“She has much of her mother’s strength,” Ned said. “Focus on how strong she is, how soon we'll get to her.”

“Ned...I know you have a task to carry out, a duty as hand of the king. But before he sees a trial, he must face a mother’s wrath. That’s all I ask.”

Ned nodded, slowly.  He could grant that request.

Catelyn rested her head on his shoulder “Some nights I dream of what I’ll do to him. How I’ll make him pay. And some nights I just want to see our daughter’s face again.”

“We will, love, within the month. And Robert may have gotten her out by now. She could be safe inside the castle at King’s Landing.”

“And he’s sent no raven to Ser Rodrick? Wouldn't we have word by now?”

Ned shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps we've missed it.” The raven relay system his men had constructed while searching for Sansa wasn’t perfect. “Or Robert thought it too risky.”

Catelyn snorted. “Robert was never one to avoid risks. Well, if Sansa cannot count on Robert, she can count on us. She can count on her parents, because we’re riding for her.”

“Hard enough that the men grumble,” Ned said, smiling. 

“Let them grumble. We stopped at an inn tonight didn’t we? They can have their hot food and soft mattresses. But so help me, if they’re not ready to ride at daybreak–“

Ned put his arm around her shoulder. “You need to sleep too, love.”

“I’ll sleep when we find her,” Catelyn said stubbornly.

“Don’t we need to be ready to help her as much as we can? To be as strong and rested as we can?”

“Must you always be so reasonable?”

“One of us has to be.” Ned brushed his lips over her hair. “You’d make a fearsome field commander, my love.”

“Don’t tease me, Ned.”

“I’m not. Come to bed now.”

They made love that night, and afterwards Ned stayed awake, gazing at Cat’s face. She was finally at ease, resting. Gratitude welled up in his chest, at the marriage they’d built brick by brick and stone by stone. Losing Sansa was one of the worst trials he’d ever faced. But with Cat by his side, they’d get through it, and save their daughter.

***

Sansa had just finished adding blush to her face when Petyr strode into the room with a client. She gave the short, brown-haired man her most winning smile. She hid her exhaustion. A fall festival had come to King’s Landing, and revelers wanted to extend their fun past dusk. Petyr’s graduates had been pulling double shifts all week.

“It’s the night before his wedding, Alayne,” Petyr said, slapping the young man on the back.

“Congratulations, my lord,” Sansa purred. She sidled up to him and kissed him on the mouth. Her mind whirled with questions. Why is he not waiting for his wife? Why is he not praying for tomorrow, for the blessings of the gods?

The man squeezed her ass before pulling back. “Call me Daeron.” He inspected a lock of Sansa’s hair. “Not dyed. Very good, Baelish. I’ve a hunger for a true redhead.” He smiled at Sansa, as if that was a compliment. She smiled back.

Daeron walked her backwards to the couch. Some men preferred it to the canopied bad. “What’s your name?”

Sansa looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Alayne, my lord.” The lie slipped easily past her lips.

“Alayne.” Daeron nodded. “Well, you’re a sight prettier than my betrothed.” He glanced back at Petyr, who was smirking in the corner. “Ugly, that one, but solid bloodlines. She’ll make my family’s coffers rich again. Frigid though, most likely.” He shrugged. “Not very worldly. Wouldn’t give it up when I went to her chambers last week.”

And why would she? Sansa thought. You’re supposed to protect her, sweep your cloak around her shoulders and keep her safe. You’re supposed to be faithful to her.

Daeron tilted Sansa’s chin. “You’ll give it up though, won’t you? Bet you even like it after all these months being corrupted by the men of King’s Landing.” He leered at her.

Petyr glared. _Say the right words, sweetling_.

She ran her hand up the man’s leg. “I do, my lord.” She licked her lips.

Daeron chuckled. “Show me the last good night I’ll have on this earth.” He pushed her down onto her back. “Till the next time I visit anyway.” Petyr laughed with him, before leaving.

***

Sansa couldn’t stop crying that night. Stupid, so stupid. She’d faced worse, scrapes and bruises included. But none of them had scarred her heart. She cried for the guileless girl who was to be that cruel man’s bride, and because she might have been that guileless girl herself.

She’d dreamed of her wedding since she could remember – the incense, the sun shining through the windows of the Sept, the slender, graceful man who’d say his vows with her and treat her gently and…

And now he had Jon’s face.

She wasn’t sure why this one shattered dream mattered so much to her. Perhaps because she thought this nightmare would end, someday, and that she’d be free. But people outside the Pink Pearl will wed, she thought, and cheat, and come to pay for my services as I grow older. A husband, and a keep, and the children she’d thought she’d bear slipped away from her.

I am a whore now, she thought sadly. And that’s all I am. All I’ll ever be.

***

Sansa refused to come out of her room for the next three days. She’d had eight appointments booked, and missed each one.  She expected the guards to drag her out, but Ros showed up at her door instead.

“Come with me, Alayne. Lord Baelish would like to speak to you.”

“Why are you here?”

Ros sighed. “Lord Baelish wanted to send the guards, but I convinced him I’d talk sense into you first.”

“I don’t need sense talked into me,” Sansa said listlessly. “The client didn’t hurt me. Just give me another day and-“

“I’m not really here to talk sense into you.” Ros came over to the bed and sat next to her. “This happens, Sansa,” she said gently. “It happens to all of us. There’s a breaking point. I’d like to help you through it.”

Sansa dried her eyes. Ros had used her given name, and put herself at risk. They were alone, but guards could be outside the door, and names that were not Petyr’s were strictly forbidden.

Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Ros what was wrong. “I’m fine, I am. Truly.”

Ros gave her a long, knowing look.

“All right,” she said finally. “I wish you’d – all right. I’m here to take you to Lord Baelish.”

Sansa nodded, her stomach sinking. They walked the long corridor in silence.

Ros spoke as they approached Petyr’s door. “I can try to bring Jon–“

“No,” Sansa said, stirring to life for the first time. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Sansa stopped. "The courtesan is always to blame, Ros.” The words her mentor had spoken so long ago, at the beginning of training.

Ros gave her a sad smile. Perhaps she’d seen through Sansa’s efforts to hurt her, to the wounds underneath.

“That’s true, of course. And we won’t tell Jon, not if you don’t want us to.”

They paused before Petyr’s door. Ros spoke quickly, so quickly Sansa had to strain to listen.

“Apologize,” she said. “Tell him you only want to please the clients. He’ll let you off easily, I hope.”

Sansa nodded. She didn’t deserve Ros’s kindness, not after what she’d said, and here the woman was giving it freely. “Thank you Ros.”

Ros knocked on the door. Petyr appeared in a gray jacket slashed with green, the silver mockingbird at his throat as always. “Ah. Alayne, my dear. Ros, you may leave us.”

Ros smiled graciously. Sansa marveled at her ability to show Petyr what he needed to see, while still caring for the girls under her charge.

Petyr led Sansa into his study. The walls were linked with dark bookshelves, and Petyr’s oversize desk took up the right wall. Beaded curtains hung from the windows, as they did from each and every window, giving the room a pinkish hue. Petyr never wanted them to forget where they were, that he controlled their lives down to the light itself.

Petyr poured her a glass of golden wine from the decanter on his desk. He gestured for her to sit on the red settee that took up the opposite side of the room. Sansa did as she was told. The wine burned her throat as she sipped.

Petyr came to sit next to her, quick as a cat, his green eyes raking over her body.

“Oh sweetling,” Petyr said, grasping her chin, turning her head from side to side. He sighed as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “It was the talk of weddings, wasn’t it? A tender girl like you. The dreams you had as a child. It hurt, didn’t it?”

Sansa shivered at Petyr’s uncanny ability to read her.

Petyr clucked his tongue. “I’m worried about you.” He put an arm around her shoulder. Sansa sat stone still, refusing to flinch away. “My dear, you have such potential. A lady’s manners. A figure men would go to war for. The color of your hair alone fetches me twice the price. You’re a good investment, and we can help each other.”

Petyr leaned in closer, till Sansa could smell the mint on his breath. “I need you to forget that unfortunate incident last night. I need you to remember your lessons, remember how to make the men feel wanted and desired.” He pinched her arm, suddenly, but Sansa didn’t move.

Petyr sighed. “And I need you to come back down from those clouds, little one, because my best clients demand a woman’s mind along with her body. Can you do that for me?”

Sansa looked at him, his pointed beard and his red lips. Hatred boiled inside her. She opened her mouth, to say the right words, but she couldn’t answer. Petyr frowned.

She was saved by a knock at the door.  

Petyr’s face twitched in frustration. “Wait here Sansa.” He left the room. Sansa remembered Jon’s advice, to listen when she could. She crept over to the keyhole and saw the helm of a gold cloak in the hallway.

“...Can’t hold them for much longer, my Lord.”

Petyr scowled. “You can’t keep one man off the scent?”

“He’s Hand of the King,” the gold cloak said.

Sansa’s heart sank. Jon Arryn was the King’s hand. Her father had said he was an honorable man, but he wouldn’t know about the abduction. The raven didn’t make it, Sansa thought sadly.

She scrambled back to the couch before Petyr returned, and smoothed her short shift.

The news Petyr had heard ignited his anger, and he grabbed Sansa roughly by the arm. “Your petulance cost me eight clients, Alayne. Eight. A thousand gold dragons gone. How can I charge what I need to if you won’t cooperate?”

“I’m sorry, Petyr, I’ll try harder.” She brought tears to her eyes. Tears helped, sometimes, with clients who needed sadness or tenderness. But she was a fool to think they might work on Petyr.

“Not good enough, sweetling, and not what I had in mind. I have a special session planned for you tonight, and then we’ll be done with this nonsense.”

 _A night with you_ , Sansa thought. It wasn’t unexpected. Petyr sometimes reconditioned the girls himself. “It will be my honor to learn from you.”

The sharpness of Petyr’s smile made her shiver. “No, not from me, love. I’ve something entirely different in mind for you.”

Sansa’s mind ran wild with expectations. All of them were wrong, when Petyr brought her to the training room, the one she remembered, with a large porthole window. Inside the room she saw Jon.

She pulled back instinctively. _Not here, not like this, please…_

Petyr gestured grandly to the door. “Here he is, your prince.  You’ll get to see him again at last. A fairytale ending, and a bedroom lit with candlelight. Call it a wedding night.” Petyr tightened his grip on her arm. “I’ll use his love to break you, make you docile. You won’t be able to travel far away, not when the boy you love kisses you.”

He’s jealous, Sansa realized, jealous of how I feel about Jon.

“Jon will bring you back, and then he’ll have served his purpose. I’ll make sure you never see him again. So best enjoy your bedding while you can.”

Then he pushed her into the room, shutting the door behind him.

Jon stood up, his eyes red from crying, his dark curls down around his shoulders. He didn’t move, only watched her, the love in his eyes overwhelming her senses.

She turned away and went to sit on the bed. Candles burned in the room’s corners, on silver candlesticks. A gaudy display. Part of Petyr’s mockery of a wedding night, she guessed.

“Sansa, may I sit by you?” She nodded, and the mattress dipped under Jon’s weight. “What happened?”

She couldn’t look at him. “Jon, you’ll think me a stupid, silly girl.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did,” Jon said gently.

“He didn’t even hurt me. Not...physically.”

He held out his hand, and Sansa took it because she knew he would not blame her if she didn’t, because he wasn’t asking more of her than she was willing to give. Not tonight, not ever.

"Sansa. Will you tell me, please, if you can?”

She took a deep breath. “Did you ever dream of marrying?”

Jon looked taken aback. “Not really? Howland Reed needed me to manage the lands, and there were Meera and Jojen to look after, and…I’m a bastard, I didn’t have much hope for it.”

Sansa looked at her lap. “I was a spoiled girl in a castle, and I did. I daydreamed about the dress I’d make. I imagined the feast. I never thought about the bedding, not till I came here.”

“Why would you?” Jon said softly. “You were just a girl, Sansa.”

“Well I’m not any longer. And last week…Petyr brought me a client who was to wed the next day. He said his bride was ugly, and frigid.” Sansa picked at the hem of her shift.  “But I think she was shy, and scared. She might have been a good wife to him, if he’d only given her a chance. Might have given him sons. He could have grown to love her...”

She trailed off. “This place, this horrible place, it twists your dreams and I didn’t think I had any left. I’m empty and wrung out and I can’t put on the right face.”

Jon tucked her head under his chin. “Your dreams keep you alive here, sweet girl. They help you burn as brightly as you do. You don’t need to be ashamed of them.”

 _Sweet girl?_ Sansa let it go. He was only comforting her.

She shuddered. “You know what Petyr wants.” As much as she daydreamed about Jon, as her lover, as her husband, she didn’t want to sleep with him tonight, because then Petyr would win.

“And I know I’m not doing it, not if you don’t want me to,” he said fiercely.

Sansa shook her head. “He’ll only force us to try again. Over and over.”

“Your father may come before that.”

How could she tell him, about what she’d heard in Petyr’s office? How could she let that last flame of hope flicker out? She held her tongue, and nodded. Jon deserved hope.

Jon’s fingers trembled as he touched her cheek, and Sansa’s pulse quickened.

“I should have kissed you on the rooftop, Sansa, free from all of this, I should have–“

“We were never really free from it,” she said. “And…I don’t want to kiss you here, only…” She toyed with his sleeve. “Only because I want to kiss you more than anything. Does that make sense?”

She needed to imagine those kisses, how Jon’s lips would be soft and warm. How he might love her when he touched her, might want her to be his wife.

Jon exhaled sharply. “Yes, yes, it does, Sansa.”

She inched closer, till she could feel the warmth of his body. Jon put his arm around her. She tugged him down to the bed and curled up in his arms.

Jon held her that way for a long moment. “Sansa, will you let me tell you a story, what I dream about, even if the dream dies here?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Tell me. Tell me our story, Jon. I’d like to know.” She willed herself to remember this.

“I loved you since the moment I saw you,” he said, his dark eyes locked onto hers. “I didn’t realize it, not at first, but I did.”

He cupped her cheek. “You riled me up, you made me laugh. You fought this place, even if you didn’t know it, fought it in a thousand subtle ways, better than I could.”

Her heart expanded in her chest. He’d given her the freedom to say it, to voice the deepest wish of her heart. “I love you too, Jon.”

Jon’s pupils were blown, and he looked her like she was the sun itself. “I’ve planned it, so many times, our escape, we’d go into hiding, take a boat-“

“Where?” Sansa asked.

Jon’s mouth quirked. “I thought you might like the free cities, Volantis, Lys-“

Sansa shook her head. “I dreamed–“ Sansa’s throat closed. It was one thing to hear Jon’s story, and another to tell him her own. But Jon was here, warm and real, and she might as well tell him once.

“I dreamed we’d go North, where my family is.”

Jon’s face broke into a smile. “Mine too,” he said. “I miss them, I miss the cold, how it chills your skin-“

“How the blanket of snow that falls washes the world clean again,” she finished. “Where were you born in the North?“

Jon grew quiet for a moment. "I don't know. My father was a soldier who fought in Robert’s Rebellion. He didn’t - he wouldn’t stay with us. Had his own family, back home. And my mother died when I was born.”

"I’m sorry, Jon.”

“Don’t be. Howland Reed took me in. He was like a father to me. He helped me learn to hunt and fish.”

She traced Jon’s lips with her fingers, a resolve growing deep inside her. “Would you have married me?”

“I don’t have much,” Jon said, “I’m only a bastard, but yes, if you would have me, gods, yes, Sansa, I’d ask you to be my wife.”

She held on tight to him, tucking her head under his chin.

Jon pulled her closer. “I know a little of sailing. I could work in a fishing village, I know there aren’t many, up North, but I can steer a boat and mend nets, it wouldn’t have been much of a life-“

“But it would have been ours,” Sansa said. She trailed her fingers over Jon’s shirt. “I can sew, did you know that? Embroidery too, but sewing’s what people pay for. You could mend nets, and I could mend clothes.

She smiled up at him. “We’d make enough to get by. I might even make more than you. My mother said I could have embroidered for kings and queens.”

“I know you could, love.” Jon tucked her hair behind her ear. “A fisherman and a dressmaker in the North.” He took a deep breath, and Sansa could feel him shaking. “I’m not good with words, Sansa, I don’t know how to tell you how much I love you, how lucky I’d be if you gave me your hand, how hard I’d work to be a good husband to you, sweet girl.”

Sansa breathed into that moment, and let it expand. She let Jon’s soft touch make a new story, write over Petyr and this ruinous palace, so they could start again.

“You meant it,” she whispered, carding her fingers through his soft curls. “You meant it, about the moon, about what stays inside, clean and new, and…you still do?”

“Yes, love, yes, always.” He brushed the tears she shed from her cheeks. “The moon’s there for you, and I am too, if you’ll have me.”

She was standing on the edge of a cliff. Jon’s love worked its way like the tendrils of a flowering vine into her heart. I’m cracked, she thought, we both are. But I’m whole too, and I’m allowed to want him back, even if we only have the moon to light the way.

She smiled, the smile of a girl who’d promised to watch over a sullen boy sitting next to her, the girl who’d comforted Nala as she wept, the girl who’d gazed at the moon and demanded Jon share its blessing with her.

“Would…would you give me a babe, if we were free?”

“I’d give you a thousand babes, he whispered hoarsely, "our babes, Sansa, and I’d marry you, love, before the old gods, make you mine until the end of days.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She might go back to being used. But this moment, where she and Jon felt like one person, one spirit, was as real as the rest, and even Petyr could not tear it from her grasp.

She fell asleep in his arms as the candles guttered out, wishing this night could last forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like I said, i promise you this will get happier and easier to read! I appreciate all of you who helped me work through this installment! <3


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